Beat Me Daddy, Eight to the Bar
by Luckynumber28
Summary: I'm an Italian redhead. That sounds like the name of a drink that could get you real soused but I swear I'm not that interesting. At least not most days. My name is Francesca Bonanno. My last name means 'good year'. This hasn't been true most of my life, but especially not this year. Not 1944.


**Author's Note: So I know I have been MIA for a while. I'm SO sorry. I have been working on some original pieces for another site and got focused on that. However, I received the sweetest message from ChampionWarrior today talking about the lack of love in fanfiction for Guarnere and Webster. I could not agree with her more and since I had never tackled a love story for Wild Bill, I decided to give it a shot. We'll see how this goes but so far its more lighthearted than some of my others! Hope yall enjoy!**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own any of this and mean no disrespect to the veterans the miniseries was based on. I was merely inspired by the era and the story as told by HBO**

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I'm an Italian redhead. That sounds like the name of a drink that could get you real soused but I swear I'm not that interesting. At least not most days. Both my parents claim to be Sicilian Italian but with my mug, someone must've been lying. I fry like a worm on a sidewalk in direct sunlight and my eyes are sterling grey. My cheekbones curve impishly into the dimpled chin of a leprechaun.

My name is Francesca Bonanno. My last name means _good year_. This hasn't been true most of my life, but especially not this year. Not 1944.

"Ah jeepers," Private Moira Mathers growls, hanging her dark head out the window, "Would you listen to that?"

I had been doing my best to ignore the problem. While test driving the ambulance around the lot, a menacing rumble vibrates from the radiator. The vehicle shudders to a stop on the damp pavement, hissing with contempt.

"Ah!" I howl, sharply hitting the horn with the heel of my hand, "I could spit! I really could!"

I let my forehead fall onto the wheel and let loose a groan. A lighter clicks as Moira lights herself a smoke. Another click and I knew she's lighting one for me too. Opening one eye, I take the cigarette from her candy red nails. Moira Mathers is a good egg.

"I'll go take a look," she offers with a smirk.

Rounding the bonnet of the ambulance, she rolls back the hood and unscrews the radiator cap. An evil, black sludge spits out like projectile vomit. Moira leaps back in time to avoid getting splattered. I slam the driver's side door and stomp over to her. Confused as hell, we stare at the engine.

"I spent three hours on this damn thing!" I shout, viciously kicking a front wheel with my boot, "I go on lunch break for one hour and it catches the flu."

A chorus of giggles echoes at the edge of the paved lot. We are on the outskirts of the American base at Aldbourne, close to the village. I see a gaggle of English boys in shorts and knee socks. They race away, pushing and shoving and hollering. Moira smears a bit of the sludge between her thumb and forefinger.

"Sand." She mutters.

"I will bet you good money those cretins in sweater vests are the ones to blame," I snarl through my teeth.

Overhead in the grey afternoon sky, the steady mist turns to rain. I know the saying goes that April showers bring May flowers. So what the hell do May showers bring? June showers? Does it do anything _but_ shower on this damn island?

"You know," Moira waves Honey over to help us push the vehicle back to the garage, "A visit to the pub might be a nice end to this day."

"No argument here."

Corporal Helen 'Honey' Drew trots over, wiping a grease stain from her broad face with a cloth. Everyone calls her Honey but no one remembers how the nickname got started. Basic training feels like a lifetime ago.

"I thought this old girl was ready to see service again," Honey slaps a palm on the hood, her Wisconsin accent thick as maple syrup.

"Sabotaged by our allies," I hook a thumb in the direction of the village, "Peter Pan and the Lost Boys had a little fun while we were at lunch."

Honey squints in the rain as she inspects the radiator, "I'll have them put on another guard when we are gone for that hour."

The three of us grunt and growl the creaking ambulance back into the garage. We are drenched, sweaty and mad as hornets. At least I am. With a sticky hand, I throw a wrench to the ground and drag my grubby fingers through my hair.

"Cool it, Francie," Honey directs firmly, "Go get yourself some coffee. I put a fresh pot on a half hour ago."

"Sure thing, Corporal," I grunt, striding towards the kitchenette at the back.

Breathing heavily, I pour myself a cup and lean up against the counter. I inspect my torn nails, the beds blackened by oil, and think back to the first day I got my uniform. Sipping my black, steaming coffee, I close my eyes and visualize how I had looked in the mirror. So clean cut in my dark olive drab, so capable. I had felt like I was actually going somewhere. I would rub that little Athena profile on my lapel like a good luck charm. No Limey brat was going to steal that from me. Not from Francesca Bonanno, damnit. After two hours and no dice with the ambulance, we call it a day.

My dad drank but I've never shied away from the stuff. He wasn't a mean drunk, just sad and ineffectual. What money he'd make digging graves in rural Massachusetts, he'd spend on gin or give to his friends. It left our family with very little and my mother rotted with resentment till she died of it. Cancer the year before I was going to graduate from high school. Dad was barely bringing in pennies by then so I dropped out to feed my younger brothers. I worked at the shoe factory till I joined WAC. I have no problem talking about it all because nearly everyone else I know has a similar story. The Depression stole our childhood and now the War is stealing our youth. Shit end of the deal, if you ask me.

"Now I don't have a problem with the Irish," I say, hooking arms with Moira as four of us make our way to the local pub, "I'd marry an Irishman."

"But you won't marry an Italian?"

I snort, "I don't trust em'."

Cora Bernier scrunches her snub nose in my direction, her heavy eyebrows crooking. Cora is a recent replacement from the States. She took over for Pamela who was rotated home after her father died. Pamela was the fastest hand at replacing a tire I had ever seen. Cora spilled a can of paint on the garage floor her first day. Cora is an idiot.

"But you're Italian?" Cora murmurs.

"So what?" I sneer in her direction, "What has that got to do with who I marry?"

"I just thought-"

"See, that's your problem, Bernier. Just don't think," my voices goes up an octave in irritation.

Moira pinches my arm, "Nice kitty."

"Yeah, yeah."

Cora falls behind Honey who is busy primping her springy curls in a compact mirror, "You gals think I look like a poodle?"

"You always ask that, Honey," Moira chuckles, "And we always tell you no."

Honey harrumphs in her throat, "I still think you're lying."

"Maybe we are," I purr with a wink as I pull open the door to the pub.

The air is hot with smoke and voices. The locals stomach us because of the money we bring in to the little village but most of the patrons not in uniform glare at us from corner tables. We've all heard the saying they have for us. Oversexed, overpaid and over here. Can't say I agree with the overpaid part.

"Moira!" Paratrooper Chuck Grant hollers from the bar as we make our way through the Friday night crowd.

A tint of pink fans out from Moira's upturned nose, her thick eyelashes fluttering as she smiles and waves. I'm cute but Moira is truly lovely. She is a dead ringer for Vivien Leigh with misty green eyes and chocolate curls. Her ears stick out a bit but it just adds to her appeal. Heads turn left and right for her but she has her sights set on the blonde Californian with the easy smile.

"Chuck Grant," she gives him that disarming grin that makes her look young and vulnerable, "How have you been?"

"Good," He chirps back, leaning an arm against the bar and soaking in her presence, "You look well."

"Thank you," Moira laughs, "I hope I got all the grease off from today."

Chuck shakes his head, "I'm just glad you could make it out. Haven't seen you in a couple weeks."

"Like ships passing in the night, I suppose."

They hold each other's eyes as long as I can bear. I'm happy for Moira and wish Grant would take her stepping, but I want a beer. I shove Moira towards him as I push my way to the bar, elbowing the paratrooper next to her.

"A pint please-" I manage before tripping on the stool in front of me.

I shove into the body beside me as he is swiveling away from the bar carrying two glasses. They are brimming and spill directly all over his khaki uniform. I am dry as a bone and he is drenched. Shocked to the core, my mouth drops open. The Paratrooper's strong jaw juts out, his high brow furrowing over dark eyes.

"I don't- I'm so-" I stutter, grabbing the bar towel sitting in front of me and dabbing his broad chest, "I can't even begin to tell you-"

"Leave it, Carrottop," he garbles in a rough Philadelphia accent. He grabs my wrist and takes the towel, "You ain't really my type."

My face burns as he stomps out of the bar to a chorus of laughter from his buddies. Nauseous with embarrassment and anger, I second guess the image of the clean cut girl in the mirror. After today, I wonder if I really am getting anywhere in life.


End file.
